


strikhedonia

by resistanceflyboy (kherezae)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Bottom Kylo Ren, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Prompt Fic, Some Fluff, and porn, post-TFA, some sad times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6589036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kherezae/pseuds/resistanceflyboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>STRIKHEDONIA - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”</p><p>There are still phrases that dredge up difficult memories for Kylo, but he's learning to reclaim them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strikhedonia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Davechicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/gifts).



> This is my first explicit fic...? The porn's at the end, with teasing throughout, because I'm evil. Feel free to give advice or whatever :D

Poe probably should have stayed at the hangar to finish up his mission report, but the call of the comfy, quiet apartment he shares with Kylo was too much. So now he’s on the sofa, his back against the armrest, his legs draped over Kylo’s and acting as a makeshift desk. Poe keeps glancing up from his report (yeah he’s only got two sentences typed, so?) to sneak peeks at the way his boyfriend scrunches his eyebrows together and pulls his lip through his teeth as he works, his dark hair falling forward into his face as he leans close to his datapad.

He’s sketching out designs for a new lightsaber (finally), and one hand grips the datapad with long fingers while the other draws — sometimes tiny clusters of detail, sometimes quick, straight lines. The more he watches, the more Poe wants that intense concentration focused on  _ him _ instead.

Biting his lip as hot tension coils in his belly, Poe finally accepts that he’s not getting any work done tonight. “To hell with it,” he says, the words rumbling from deep in his throat as he tosses his own datapad aside and grabs the back of the couch, using it for leverage as he moves to straddle Kylo’s legs. 

Kylo holds his datapad up against Poe’s abdomen as if startled. His eyes flick to Poe’s, slightly widened, but he doesn’t move. So Poe puts his hands on the back of the couch, bracketing Kylo with his arms, and leans down to catch those full lips with his own.

But something’s off. Kylo doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t return the kiss either. He lets Poe push until he’s leaning back against the couch, but he’s got a lost, disconnected look on his face.

Poe draws away, settling his weight onto his lover’s thighs and closing his hands around Kylo’s strong, pale forearms. He strokes his thumbs along the skin there. “What’s wrong, babe?”

Kylo’s eyes clear, darting to meet Poe’s stare. “Nothing,” he says, soft. “It’s not you. It’s… nothing.”

Which is, of course, a total lie. Okay, Poe will allow that it’s probably not  _ him _ , but it’s  _ something _ . “Kylo,” he murmurs.

Kylo shakes his head and gently frees one arm from Poe’s grasp, just long enough to set his datapad aside before he’s cupping Poe’s side and running his hand up, the fabric of the shirt whispering with the movement. Then both hands are on Poe’s back, pulling lightly, a gentle plea in physical form. “It’s nothing,” he repeats. “Come here?”

Always a question, a request, not a demand. Not that Poe can resist begging, not from his beautiful Kylo. Still, he keeps his weight back, stubborn, even as the gravity of Kylo’s plea tries to pull him forward. “Are you sure?” He thinks they’ve gotten past Kylo setting his own needs aside for what he thinks Poe wants or needs, but moments like this he’s not so sure.

“Poe, I want you,” Kylo says, and the heat in his voice — Poe shifts forward, pressing himself to his lover’s chest and raking his fingers up into that dark, silken hair. He kisses Kylo’s mouth open, lingering on his bottom lip with gentle suction until Kylo moans heat against his cheeks, and then he uses the grip on his lover’s hair to pull his head back and expose his neck.

That night they barely make it to the bedroom, shedding clothes as they go. By the time exhaustion finds him wrapped around Kylo, drifting away, the momentary awkwardness is the last thing on his mind.

But it makes no difference. Kylo can’t always talk about the things that bring the aching parts of his past rushing back, not right away. Poe trusts that Kylo tells him the important things. That he tells him what he can, when he’s ready.

* * *

When he was small — when he was Ben — Kylo’s parents argued what felt like all the time. Often, it was about him. The arguments would take different paths, but they almost always reached the same destination: Han Solo throwing up his hands — “To hell with it!” — and leaving the house. He’d go away while his temper cooled. Sometimes it didn’t take that long. Other times, he boarded the Millennium Falcon and was gone for days.

Ben stopped waiting up for the sound of Dad coming home when he was seven. He tried to block out the fights and the dark, prodding voice that came with them, whispering that Han Solo would always give up on him, would never understand him… but he couldn’t. The words carried, and worse, their feelings always carried too, suffusing his room with anger, frustration, disappointment, despair. 

* * *

The second time Poe utters those words — at least where Kylo can hear them — it’s right before he punches a man in the face. 

Most people in what was the Resistance have come to a sort of peace with having Kylo around, whether easily or uneasily. But occasionally he still catches accusation, fury, or hatred seething in people when they look at him. Mostly he can block it out. He hardly blames them. Other times, he’s a target. Rarely with words, at least not at first; General Organa has made it pretty clear that Kylo is to be left alone, and she’s well-respected enough that most obey that order. 

But Kylo is sensitive to people’s thoughts, especially when they’re aimed at him like blasterfire. And Poe can always,  _ always _ tell when Kylo is suffering under the weight of a barrage of targeted emotional warfare. It doesn’t matter that he tries to keep the effects out of his posture and face. Poe knows him too well.

This particular encounter started like that. A tall man, nearly matching Kylo’s height and probably heavier than he is, aiming mental vitriol at Kylo. People like this, they like to aim nasty words and images at him, but honestly it’s the sheer weight of the hatred underscored by disgust that makes his chest ache, and it’s the reminders of what he has done that threaten to bring him to his knees.

“Who is it?” Poe asked, the muscles in his jaw tight as his eyes flashed around the waiting room where they stood with the other early arrivals.

Kylo didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. Poe found the man easily. They always stare; whether they’re looking for a reaction or think they need to stare for him to sense their thoughts, Kylo’s not sure. 

So Poe — fiercely protective Poe — prowled over to the man and gave him a piece of his mind. The man argued in return, their voices began to raise, people began to stare; Kylo moved to talk Poe down, was just about to put a calming hand on Poe’s arm when he said, “To hell with it!” and punched the man in the face.

And now he stands with his shoulders heaving as Kylo’s tormentor reels back, covering his jaw with one hand and glaring disbelief at Poe.

“Commander Dameron!” General Organa says, and Kylo turns to find that his mother has emerged from the Senate Hall. Her voice is steel. “Senator Tanith.”

Great. Poe didn’t punch just anyone — he punched one of the new senators. Poe stands at attention, and the senator comes close, but he’s massaging his jaw, which diminishes the effect.

“Table this until after the meeting. You think you can handle that?”

“Yes sir,” Poe says. There’s still anger in his voice, but it’s well-buried.

“Yes, General Organa,” the senator agrees, his eyes flashing resentment.

Kylo follows them into the Senate Hall, but his thoughts are distant. Poe, in a misguided (if touching) attempt to defend him, punching a senator in the face. Poe, tossing his datapad aside and straddling Kylo’s hips, hungry.

In Poe’s mouth, those words that chipped chunks away from Kylo’s heart each time he heard them as a child take on a different meaning. But they still send a cold ache through him to hear, especially in a voice as beloved as Poe’s.

* * *

Though they had a rocky beginning that you could characterize as almost entirely fighting, since solidifying their relationship, Poe and Kylo have rarely fought. Kylo is too self-deprecating, too quick to take on blame. Poe is cautious; his beloved is stronger than he knows, but also in many ways a fragile, fractured thing, and Poe couldn’t bear to damage someone he’s been so carefully helping put himself back together.

But sometimes… sometimes Kylo is infuriating. Take now. Poe has  _ tried _ to be gentle about how Kylo gets when he overworks himself. And Poe gets it, he gets the urge — Kylo finally feels like he’s contributing in a positive way, so he pushes and pushes himself to try to make up for all the mistakes of his past. But it makes him tired and irritable at home, and honestly Poe can’t tell if he’s purposely ignoring the patient hints he’s been trying to drop that Kylo needs to go the hell to sleep because his brooding presence in the living room snapping at Poe when he tries to watch a holo or listen to music is getting on his  _ last _ nerve.

He takes a deep breath. He’ll try a more straightforward approach. “Babe, I think you should get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” Kylo monotones, his stare intense on the droid repair schematics projected above his datapad. 

“You’ve been working on that for three hours now. Which, in case you didn’t notice, is the entirety of the time you’ve been home. Even though it’s nearly midnight.”

Kylo’s eyes snap up to his. “I need to finish this,” he says, all annoyance.

Poe’s jaw firms, irritation flaring in his chest. “I was trying to relax for a while.”

“Fine,” Kylo says, his expression flinty. “I’ll move this to the bedroom.”

Breath rushes from Poe’s chest and he throws his hands up. “You know what? To hell with it. Keep working if you want.  _ I’ll _ just go to sleep.” This is clearly a battle for another day. Kylo is too damn —

Poe’s turning when he catches the stricken look on Kylo’s face, and his gut twists. He hasn’t seen that look in such a long time, but he knows it. He knows it, and it sends an ache pulsing through his chest. He goes to Kylo’s side, one knee on the couch nudging up against his boyfriend’s hip.

Oh Maker, Kylo’s eyes are shining wet. Poe puts one hand on Kylo’s knee, runs the fingers of the other up into Kylo’s hair. “What is it?” he asks.

Kylo pulls in a breath that shudders a bit and blinks, looking down as he flexes his fingers against his thighs. Cautiously he runs one hand to Poe’s wrist and holds on. Finally his eyes flick over to Poe’s and he says, “It’s not you.”

Poe shakes his head. “But it’s  _ something _ . Babe, tell me.”

There’s a pause, but Poe lets it stretch, patient. He moves his fingers gently through Kylo’s hair. Kylo swallows and looks down, but finally he speaks. “It’s what my father always said, before he left. After fighting with my mother.”

“What is?” Poe asks softly.

“‘To hell with it,’” Kylo repeats, and he meets Poe’s stare.

Poe closes his eyes as his heart drops into his stomach. Oh. Oh, of course. “Kylo, love, I will never leave you. I’m sorry. I never would have said it if I knew.”

But Kylo’s shaking his head, the hand on Poe’s arm skimming up to his neck, a thumb brushing against his ear and fingers tickling against his hair. “I know. They’re just words. I know that.”

Words can hurt. Words can be aimed like a blaster bolt to scorch out the heart. But Kylo’s right; it’s not the specific words that hurt him. It’s the memory attached. Of a father always leaving, always giving up on his son. Poe raises a hand to Kylo’s cheek and repeats, “I will never leave you.” He brushes a thumb across Kylo’s lips. “And I will never give up on you.”

Kylo smiles, his eyes fluttering half-closed. “I know.” He tugs gently with the hand on Poe’s neck, drawing him close for a kiss. It’s short and sweet before he pulls back, resting their foreheads together. “And Poe?”

“Hm?”

“You’re right. I do need to sleep. I’m sorry for… how I’ve been.”

“It’s okay. I get it.” Poe smiles.

“Let me make it up to you?” 

The tone of his voice sends desire shuddering along Poe’s nerves. “Yes,” he says, his voice husky. He stands, drawing Kylo to his feet beside him. They need to move this to the bedroom, because he’s going to fuck Kylo to sleep.

* * *

Kylo knows Poe well enough to understand that even though he said it’s okay, that they’re just words, the phrase  _ to hell with it _ has been excised from Poe’s vocabulary.

The trouble is, he was starting to like the way Poe uncoupled the words from the painful memories attached to them. When Poe said them, they meant  _ you’re so damned attractive I can’t concentrate on anything else, so we might as well fuck _ , or  _ I know I shouldn’t, but you hurt my boyfriend so I’m going to punch you in the fucking face _ , or  _ I’m pissed off, you win this round, I’m going to bed _ . They were drenched in caring about Kylo in all their different forms, because it was impossible for Poe to say something that didn’t carry his love.

There would be no point in arguing the case with Poe, though, so Kylo let it go. For the moment.

But that was weeks ago, and this is now:

Kylo is supposed to be writing evaluations for the students he’s been training with Rey and Uncle Luke, but Poe is reading another of the trashy novellas he’s been into recently from his colony on Yavin IV. They’re in Poe’s family language, so Kylo can’t understand them, but the faces Poe makes when Kylo asks him to explain them make him  _ want _ to.

And the face Poe’s making right now is driving Kylo to distraction. His lips slightly parted, his eyes intensely focused as they flick across the datapad, the heel of his hand against his neck and his fingers threading through his own hair. Sometimes he mouths words as he reads, and — 

“To hell with it,” Kylo growls, tossing his datapad aside and reaching to curve over Poe and find his neck. He kisses greedily, using light suction to avoid marks (though it is fun to see Poe’s team harangue him when Kylo leaves pink and purple trails along his skin), nipping with his teeth when Poe moans and arches up toward him. The datapad’s edge hits his back as Poe’s arms go around him, and then it’s slipping down to fall to the floor, forgotten.

Poe edges his knee between Kylo’s legs and pushes upward, then pulls Kylo down against him. In his thin pajamas his cock presses against Kylo’s hip, still soft, but that’s quickly changing. Kylo is hard — was before he ever lunged for his lover — and he’s caught between them and the teasing friction as Poe rocks downward to catch his lips, distracting him from his work along the soft skin of Poe’s neck.

The kiss breaks and Poe is smiling against his lips, hands solid on his hips. “Was I distracting you, babe?” he asks, the words barely escaping their mouths. 

There’s a smug heat to him that makes Kylo pull back a touch, running his tongue along the inner ridge of his teeth. “Was that intentional?”

Poe chuckles.

Kylo’s mouth twists. “Well, it worked.”

The hands on his hips move up, fingers raking hard against his back, and he arches. The motion puts his ear against Poe’s cheek, and then lips tickle his ear and Poe nearly growls, “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Kylo groans and murmurs against Poe’s hair, “I want that mouth on me.”

Poe nips at his earlobe, pulling it between his lips — sucking, then edging his teeth against the skin, and it sparks heat through Kylo until he’s digging his fingertips into his lover’s back. The suction on his ear releases and Poe murmurs, “Like that?”

Yes. No. Kylo rocks against Poe’s hip, the friction sending a shudder through his nerves. Talking — demanding — has always been more Poe’s strength, but he’s been working on it. “I want,” he clarifies, “your mouth around my cock.”

His lover gives a pleased hum and wraps one arm around him, using the other on the back of the couch to help him flip their positions until he’s leaning over Kylo, one foot on the ground and the other knee between his thighs. Poe’s fingers move to Kylo’s waistband; he lifts his hips so Poe can pull his pants out of the way, his full cock swinging free to thump against his stomach.

Poe shifts so he can pull Kylo’s pants completely free, dropping them to the floor, but when he returns his attention to his lover it’s to run his fingers against the hem of Kylo’s shirt, pushing it upward — brushing a nipple along the way — and completely ignoring the cock aching and wanting in the cool air. Kylo strangles a whine in his throat.

Poe lowers his mouth to Kylo’s chest, flicking his tongue against one nipple — a spark shrieks through Kylo’s system — and then closing his lips around the nipple and sucking. “Poe,” Kylo groans, half complaint, half bliss. 

Fingers find his other nipple and Kylo’s head rolls back, his eyes closing as a moan escapes his throat. “Poe, please.”

The heat leaves his nipple, the hard edge of Poe’s chin resting against his chest. “Please what, babe?”

Kylo looks down, then rolls one hip toward Poe, letting his cock bump up against his lover’s side. “Suck my cock?” he asks, an edge of pleading in his voice. “Please.”

Poe grins and moves down until he’s kneeling beside the sofa, gripping the base of Kylo’s erection with one hand. He leans and wraps his lips around the head, laving his tongue against the sensitive skin underneath, and Kylo’s head falls back as a completely uncontrolled groan claws free of his throat. He digs the fingers of one hand into Poe’s shoulder, winds the fingers of the other into his lover’s hair, and that slick heat engulfs him as Poe eases down his length until his lips meet his hand. He hums in the back of his throat, sending a jolt rushing into Kylo’s balls and out through the rest of his system.

“Poe,” Kylo moans, tightening his grip. His voice is strained. “You’re — such a tease.”

He feels the grin and shudders — and then Poe moves in earnest, sliding his mouth up and down Kylo’s cock, his tongue flattening against the underside, his fingers torturously tight, ensuring no release just yet. Kylo draws shuddering breaths until he can’t take it anymore and tightens the hand in Poe’s hair, gently pulling upward. “I want you inside me,” he says when their eyes meet. His lover’s mouth pops free of his cock, sending a jolt through his belly.

Poe’s eyes crinkle, teasing, and he opens his mouth — to snark, most likely —

“Poe Dameron,” Kylo cuts him off. “If you don’t fuck me right now —”

Poe groans, lowering his mouth to press a quick bite against Kylo’s hip. He brushes a kiss across after and then leans away, fumbling for the box they keep under the sofa. Kylo sits up, reaching for Poe’s shirt as he straightens with the lube in hand. He yanks the shirt up, waiting impatiently for Poe to shrug out of it, and then tosses it over the back of the sofa.

With a grin, Poe plants a hand at the center of his chest, pushing him down into the cushions. He steps out of his pajama bottoms and then kneels beside Kylo again, slicking his fingers and then shouldering under Kylo’s leg so he can lean forward and kiss him while his fingers circle his entrance, easing him open.

Kylo moans into the kiss. It doesn’t take long; soon Poe has two fingers in him, fucking teasingly toward that sensitive place inside, and he throws his head back. Poe runs kisses along his neck, pausing between to ask, “You like that, baby?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but “Fffuck” comes out instead, and then he manages, “Yes — please — I want you inside me.”

Poe noses against his neck and eases a third finger in. “Impatient,” he hums. But he relents, easing up onto the sofa. Kylo opens his legs around his lover, squeezing against his ribs and then relaxing. Poe presses his cock against his entrance, easy, and as it slides in Kylo groans and grabs for his lover — uncoordinated — ending up running his fingers down Poe’s chest and abdomen.

Poe puts a hand on either side of Kylo’s head and leans down, kissing at his jaw as the full length of his cock presses into place. He rocks, slow, and Kylo moans complaint. “Hard,” he pleads, and then manages, “fuck me hard.”

Lips brush against his ear. “Touch yourself,” Poe orders.

Kylo wraps a hand around his cock in the narrow space between them and strokes, and Poe picks up his pace, rocking his hips  _ hard and fast _ , his breath heavy. His thrusts edge against the spot that fuzzes Kylo’s vision with stars and their moans mingle together between them.

It doesn’t take Kylo long; he tries to moan Poe’s name, but his orgasm strangles the sound, turning it into unrecognizable mush. Warmth spurts against his abdomen, and his strokes turn erratic until his hand relaxes and Poe leans down, moaning  _ good boy _ against his ear.

And then Poe is coming, his breath hot on Kylo’s neck, his hips jerking and then easing to a stop. He presses his forehead to Kylo’s chest, moving his hands to either side of his ribs, and just breathes.

Kylo reaches up, slipping his fingers into Poe’s curls. Maker, the man is gorgeous. And  _ his _ .

Once his breath evens, Poe looks up and smiles to find Kylo watching him. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too.”


End file.
